Pirates Together, Pirates Forever
by 3.1415926535897932384626433383
Summary: Sherlock's best and only friend is sick and no one will tell him what's happening. He reads every veterinarial manual and textbook he can find but nothing he finds in there makes sense. Then something unthinkable happens...
1. Pirates Together-Five Days Until

Captain Sherlock raced to the bow of the ship. His faithful first mate, Redbeard, had just run the bell that meant trouble was afoot. As he stared over the prow of the boat, he scowled. It wasn't just trouble, it was terror of the first kind.

"But we be not scared, eh, Redbeard? We'll take down this monster once and for all! Ready the cannons!" Redbeard panted, his tongue hanging out in a brave and jaunty manner. Captain Sherlock picked up the bag of water balloons he had prepared for just such an occasion, took aim, and...

"Mycroft, you big stupidhead! You ruined my game!"

"Honestly, Sherlock. You expect me to stand here and let myself be drenched when I'm meeting the Secretary of State in two hours? I refuse to fall for that trick again."

"Well, if you knew I would do that, why did you walk past anyways? Now your umbrella is soaked!"

"Because now you don't have any water balloons left to get me with later. My umbrella will dry in an hour or so; my suit would not. Now go back to your game."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, then suddenly they widened again as he had an idea. This would teach Mycroft to waste his water balloons!

He waited until he was sure Mycroft was back in his room,probably plotting ways to get rid of Sherlock like Sherlock did him, then he put Redbeard in his elevator and climbed out of the tree house. As soon as he hit the ground, he walked across the yard and into the kitchen, trying to look apologetic on case Mycroft looked out his window.

The first step to any plan is to assemble the materials needed. In this case, they were one of the last two slices of chocolate cake, ground walnuts (Mycroft was horribly allergic to them and broke out in hives at the slightest provocation) , a bag of sprinkles, a plate, and paper and pen.

Next, he applied the materials. He picked up the bag of ground walnuts and sprinkled them all over the cake, thick enough to make Mycroft sick but not thick enough to notice under the layer of sprinkles he was putting on.

... He dusted the other slice in ground walnut as well, just to be sure.

Then he wrote 'Sorry.' on the piece of paper and set everything on the plate, which was then set in front of Mycroft's door. He knocked, a good, loud knock, and ran into his room, sure that his plan would succeed.

Mycroft opened the door and looked down. He saw the plate of cake and the note and frowned. His brother was never apologetic with reason. And why had he put so many sprinkles on the cake? Mycroft didn't quite think his brother would do something to it, but better safe than sorry, right?

He brought the cake downstairs,regretfully throwing it into the garbage can, and got out a new slice.

Half an hour later, Mycroft Holmes was covered in massive, itch y, purple hives, and was completely unfit to meet the Secretary of State.


	2. Dinner Trouble-Five Days Until

Something had to be done. This was not the first time that Sherlock had-she hated to use the word attack, but it fit-attacked Mycroft. Mrs. Holmes brought it up at dinner.

"Mycroft is covered in hives, Siger. He couldn't meet the Secretary. He's very disappointed. It seems he's had an allergic reaction to walnuts, but he hasn't eaten any since we realised he was allergic."

"Oh, dear. Will he be all right? He didn't have to go to hospital, did he?"

"No, he had his medicine ready as soon as he realised what was happening, but it was a close call."

"Sherlock,you don't happen to know anything about what happened to your brother, do you?" Sherlock scowled at his plate, his cheeks turning red.

"No!"

"Sherlock Holmes. Do you know anything about what happened to your brother?" His father's voice was far sterner now. If Sherlock didn't answer immediately and satisfactorily, he would be in trouble.

Suddenly Sherlock burst our, "It was Redbeard's idea anyways! And we didn't put that much walnut on his cake! He's just mad because Mycroft messed up our game earlier when we tried to bomb him with water balloons-"

"Sherlock! It's not Redbeard's idea and you can not blame others, even your dog, especially your dog, for your mistakes! Go to your bedroom right now, and I don't want to hear a single sound from you until we've decided what to do about this!" said his mother.

Sherlock glared at her. In perfect and exaggerated silence, he got up from the table and went upstairs, intentionally leaving his plate out for someone else to have to clean up. The food on it was nearly untouched.

Violet sighed. Her youngest son was a problem child, if she would allow herself to understate it such. It wasn't just that he tortured his brother. He continually brought dead animals into the house, blew things up at least twice a week, and recently had begun blaming his dog every time he got into trouble. She just didn't know what to do with him. Mycroft had been such an easy child, nearly perfect in every way. She didn't understand how Sherlock could be so different from his brother.

###

Sorry about the short chapter. I promise the next one will be really long to make up for it


	3. Leaving Me-Five Days Until

Sherlock stormed upstairs, but he didn't go to his room. Mycroft's room was close enough that if he went in there and slammed the door, his parents would assume he had gone into his own room. Mycroft wouldn't kick him out, probably, and he certainly didn't feel like obeying, so in he went.

Mycroft was putting something in a bag when Sherlock walked in. He scowled at Sherlock and Sherlock noticed that the hives were even on his face this time. Sherlock repressed a gloating smirk.

"What, Sherlock? I'm not in the mood to talk to you." Sherlock smiled, the picture of innocence. He knew he could get Mycroft taking if he brought up the right subject.

"How did you know to put your umbrella up earlier, My? My tree house is really high up so that you can't see us."

"Honestly, Sherlock. That's a stupid question. I expect better of you. Your tree house is only two feet over my head and you've covered it in flags, and I was there when Father built it anyways. And I heard you from a mile off shouting I was coming. Really, you were obvious." Upon thinking on it, Sherlock realised Mycroft was right. Of course, he didn't tell him that.

"What are you doing?" asked Sherlock, changing the topic.

"I'm packing."

"Are you going somewhere?"

"No, Sherlock, I'm packing all my clothing up for Greg to take with him to boarding school. I'll be staying here, wearing nothing since everything will be packed." Sherlock scowled.

"That's not what I meant. I meant where are you going?"

"Then why didn't you just say that?" Mycroft rolled his eyes at his younger brother. He found himself doing that a lot when he talked to Sherlock.

"I hate you," Sherlock said indifferently. He said it rather often to Mycroft. "Where are you going?"

"I told you. If you'd thought about it, you would know. I'm going to boarding school."

"Fine, don't tell me then." Sherlock grabbed a neatly folded shirt out of the stack about to be packed and held it up, moving out of Mycroft's reach. "I'll just split your shirt down the back."

"Give me that," Mycroft said, snatching it away from him. Apparently his arms were longer than Sherlock thought. "I'm not joking. I'm going to a very exclusive boarding school. I leave in five days. Ask Father if you don't believe me."

"I would if I could but I can't so I won't," Sherlock sang out. "I've been exiled to my room again until he takes away my Lincoln Logs or something stupid like that. I hope he does. They're useless and they take up space I need for my experiments."

"Aunt Sarah gave those to you. You shouldn't be so offhand about gifts."

"She's given me Lincoln Logs every single year since I was three. I HATE them."

"Grow up, Sherlock. I won't be around to make you soon."

"Where are you going?"

"If I have to tell you again, I'll tell you as you're sailing out my window. I'm going to boarding school." Sherlock frowned.

"You aren't joking? You're leaving me? Alone?"

"It's not as bad as you make it sound, Sherlock. I'll be back for Christmas and New Year's Eve. "

"That's not for four months! Do you hate us that much? I'll stop waterbombing you! You can't LEAVE me!"

"For heaven's sakes, Sherlock, it's not as bad as you make it sound. It's a wonderful opportunity for me and-" Sherlock ran out of the room and slammed the door with a BANG. Mycroft folk his head. His brother could be such a drama queen.


	4. Traveling-Four Days Until

Sherlock woke up the next morning at five AM. He was determined to get an early start. He grabbed his bag, which had everything he could need, including a book about pickpocketing, four pounds, his violin, an extra leash for Redbeard (he most certainly could not leave him behind), and a box of jammy dodgers for if he got hungry. He was already dressed to travel, so all he did was pull on a sweater and sneak out the door.

He was pretty sure he knew the way to the train station, but he did bring a map in his pocket just in case, which turned out to be a useful idea as he was lost within five minutes of leaving home. A minute after that, he realised he had brought the wrong map. Fortunately, Redbeard knew the way. Sherlock just followed his faithful first mate.

When they arrived (funny how a short drive can be such a long walk), he went to the ticket booth and asked for two tickets to London.

"What size, please?" asked the ticket seller.

"One children's ticket and one dog's."

"I'm sorry, but we don't allow dogs outside of crates. You'll have to leave him. That will be eight pounds, please." Sherlock stared at the man.

"I have to bring Redbeard. I can't leave without him. And I only have four pounds."

"Well, then, you can't ride the train. Go home. You're too young to travel alone anyways."

"I am not too young! I'm eight!"

"Yeah, you are," said the annoyed ticket seller. "But it doesn't matter. You don't have enough money anyways." With that, he closed the curtain and Sherlock was left alone once more.

Sherlock sat down on a bench. There were at least eleven solutions to his problem, but most of them could be written off immediately, which left two. He could either stow away on the train, which would be difficult enough on his own, let alone with Redbeard, or he could procure more money somehow and bribe the conductor to let him bring Redbeard. Putting him in a crate wasn't even an option in Sherlock's mind. He hated to think how Redbeard would feel locked up in a tiny box for hours on end. He didn't even own one.

Sherlock decided on the second option. He had several ways he thought he could get money, whereas stowing away would be difficult and unnecessarily risky.

Even though it was 5:45,the station was already starting to fill up with early-morning commuters. His first plan was to give pickpocketing a go. He had been successful several times in the post, and while he was no expert, he felt that he could get by.

His first attempts were unsuccessful. He did manage to get in and out of several pockets without being noticed, but all he got was two sets of keys and several wallets with debit cards he couldn't use because he didn't know the pin numbers for. They made an interesting exercise in deduction, but they didn't help him at all.

His other idea was busking. He pulled his violin out of his backpack and set the open case on the ground. He tightened and rosined his bow, checked the strings, and then played the most haunting music he knew to attract people and their money (A/N: I'll put a list of the songs he played at the bottom of the chapter). After that, he chose a rather lively piece, and then as the train rolled in, he played 'Ride of the Valkries," making several people who knew the piece laugh when they got the joke.

He had made plenty by the time the 6:30 came in. He bowed low, then put his violin away and counted up what he'd made. People drifted away rather fast after he stopped. The entertainment was gone.

Overall, he had a nice haul. He'd made twenty-four pounds, far more than he expected to. He supposed his age had something to do with it-you don't often see eight year olds nearly as talented as him. He patted Redbeard's back, untied his leash from the bench, and went to buy a ticket for the 6:47.

###

Songs Sherlock played (not all, but I might add more if I find some that strike me):

Tomaso Antonio Vitali's Chaconne for Violin

Johannes Brahm's Hungarian Dance No. 2

Strauss's Blue Danube Waltz

Celine Dion's My Heart Will Go On

Strauss's Concertino G major Op. 11

Pablo de Sarasate's Zigwunerweisen, Op. 20


	5. Panic! At The Station-Four Days Until

Mycroft woke up promptly that morning the same way he always did. His alarm went off at seven o'clock. He got dressed and headed down to breakfast (usually a sticky bun and some eggs). A few minutes later, his parents came downstairs, bleary-eyed and in dressing gowns, to make their breakfast (always French Toast and sausage). Mycroft retrieved the morning's paper, then proceeded to read it aloud to his father and discuss the latest social and political topics. Sherlock was generally up by eight, making his breakfast (usually four or five of Mycroft's sticky buns with chocolate chips on top, for which Mycroft would scold him).

At eight-thirty, Sherlock had not come downstairs. Mycroft was sent to retrieve him from his room. He was not there.

Mycroft checked under his covers to be sure. He looked in his closet, in the bathroom, everywhere he could think of that Sherlock might hide. After a few minutes, he started to worry. He remembered the previous night's conversation-how angry Sherlock had been and how he had acted as though Mycroft was betraying him or something silly like that. He had shrugged it off at the time, but now he was certain Sherlock had done something rash.

He tried to think what on earth Sherlock would do. For heaven's sakes, the boy was nine years old. He wouldn't have the best thought out plan; of this Mycroft was sure. He would most likely go where sentiment called. A useless emotion, really, always clouding judgement. He felt certain Sherlock wouldn't have even left home without it.

Sherlock's favorite place, he thought, was probably London. He would have to get there somehow, though, and he was clever enough to know he couldn't walk. The only viable place he could leave from was the train station. He had to get there as soon as possible.

He went straight down to his father, who was still in pyjamas, and explained the situation to him. His mother had already left for work. They got into the car and made straight for the station,hoping to be there before whatever train Sherlock was trying to catch left.

When they arrived, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. In desperation, Mycroft asked the ticketseller if he'd seen a small boy with extremely dark, curly hair and perhaps a dog in the last few hours.

"Yeah, he was here around sixish this morning. Didn't have enough money for the ticket, so pulled out a violin from his backpack and he must've made twenty pounds playing it. Beautiful music, too. Made more than enough. Dunno what he did about the dog, though. Rules against taking them onboard-"

"Don't waste my time! My little brother is missing! Did he get a ticket or not?" Mycroft demanded. The ticket seller looked annoyed.

"Yeah, I said already, he took the 6:47 to London. Do you wants a ticket now or not? There's a queue behind you, if you hadn't noticed." Mycroft was having trouble not screaming at the man now. Fortunately his father stepped in.

"We'll take two tickets to London, next train, please. Now."

"That'll be twenty pounds, then. Here's your ticket. Train leaves in twenty minutes."


	6. We Weary Travelers - Four Days Until

Sherlock had only just managed to get Redbeard onto the train. He had to give the conductor every single pound he'd made that he hadn't spent on his ticket. Fortunately, he wasn't as worried about money anymore-he could always busk if he needed more. After that it was a two hour ride, scheduled to get there around 8:50. He decided to nap on the train, curling up next to Redbeard on the seat.

When he woke up again, he was freezing cold. He put his arms into his jumper in an effort to warm up, thinking about the warmest places on the body (armpits) and putting his hands there. It helped just a little bit, but his ears were still cold. Nothing he could do about that.

Just then, the speaker called out, "Arrival in fifteen minutes. Repeat, we arrive in Shoreditch in fifteen minutes." Sherlock would have smiled if his ears weren't so dratted cold.

When they finally arrived, Sherlock, who was in the back of the train, was the last to get out, Redbeard in tow. He hadn't quite gotten this far on what to do. He thought it possible that he could visit his auntie Sarah, but he wasn't quote sure where she lived. He would need to pick up a map, and some breakfast might be in order.

To get breakfast, he thought to himself, one requires money. And I have one way to get money. He tied Redbeard to a bench and began to rosin his violin when one of the conductors came up to him and said, not unkind you, that there was no soliciting of any sort allowed in the station.

Sherlock frowned at that. What if he wasn't allowed to bust anywhere? He hadn't thought of that either. Well, there was only one thing he could do, which was try again. He went outside the station and walked around for a while until he found a small public green. Then he once again got out his violin and began to play.

This time no one stopped him. He played several simple melodies to warm up, then he began to play his most beautiful pieces to attract attention. Unfortunately, the busy people of London were a far cry less generous than the bored commuters of Cambridge. After a good hour of playing, he'd only made seven pounds. He picked up the money and went somewhere else to try again.

By this point, it was ten o'clock. He was wishing he hadn't skipped breakfast at home and he'd eaten all his food on the train, which, now that he thought about it, hadn't been that much anyways. He walked around for a bit, but he couldn't find another green, and after a while, he realised he couldn't find the one he had been at previously. He wished he had stored that information in his mind house, but he had forgotten earlier. Sherlock was lost.

He took his seven pounds and went to see about getting something to eat somewhere. No one would serve to a kid except vendors, and he'd been warned about them by Mycroft every single time he'd come to the city. They were not an option. Finally he walked into a corner grocery store.

The food there was much cheaper than the food at any of the diners and cafes he'd tried before. He bought a can of dog food, a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread for six pounds and saved the rest of his money. Then he took his food outside and realised that he was missing something rather important when it came to sandwiches: a knife to spread the peanut butter. He sighed. This was not a good day.


	7. Hot On The Trail-Four Days Until

Mycroft and Mr. Holmes were, by contrast, far too worried to be hungry. Mycroft knew that after the first few hours, the chance of finding a missing person decreased dramatically.

It felt as though instead of hours, it took years for the train to arrive. When he got there, he asked everyone official who would have been there for a while if they'd seen Sherlock. The answer was a continual and apologetic no. Mycroft sat down, head in hands. Although he didn't know it, he was sitting on the same bench Sherlock had hours before. Sherlock had run away because of him. If he was hurt, or anything worse, it would be his fault.

His father was in a similar state, wondering if he'd been too hard on Sherlock the previous evening. He couldn't stop worrying and was far too worked up to sit. He kept sitting down, then standing up, walking around, and sitting again. He had no idea how to find Sherlock.

Suddenly he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"I 'eard you were looking for a little chap with a violin and black hair. Came through this morning, did he?" It was a conductor, about 45 years old, low income, chain smoker. Mycroft sat straight up.

"Yes, he's my brother and he's run away. Did you see him this morning?"

"Yeah, he started playin' that instrument of his. Tried to play for money, but it's not allowed 'ere and I 'ad to make him stop. Shame; it's not often you see a kid young as that playing violin, is it? Most want to take piano or drums or nothing at all."

"Did you see where he went? He's never been to the city alone before."

"I think 'e went that way, towards the little park in the square. Probably went to play his music there, 'opin' to pick up a dime or two. Good luck on finding 'im."

"Thank you so much." Mycroft went to get Mr. Holmes and they set off straight to the square.

It was empty when they arrived, except for a woman walking busily across. Sherlock was nowhere to be found, but by a park bench, he found a map of the area around where they lived with a circle over both his house and the station. Mycroft closed his eyes and deduced.

The map was messily folded in half, but it was bent as though it had been in a tight pocket for several hours. On the inside fold, it had a long, curled red hair, probably Redbeard's, that fell out when he opened it up. The edges were waterstained, so he had probably stolen it from the study-there was a box of old maps there that Sherlock had found a month or so ago. Several of them were outdated, including this one, so it was a miracle he had even gotten to the station without being lost. The map was also covered in dirt from the ground where it had laid for several hours. Mycroft was glad no one had picked it up and thrown it away. Even though it told him nothing about where Sherlock was now, it confirmed that he had been here several hours ago.

His phone rang. He checked it. It was Sherlock.

###

I probably should have noted this before, but he didn't call Sherlock earlier because Sherlock blocks Mycroft's number whenever he gets mad at him and Mycroft is pretty sure that he will be blocked now. And even when he isn't blocked, Sherlock doesn't usually answer his phone. As you know, he prefers to text.

Also, sorry about the numerous mistakes-I go back and fix them whenever I find them, but I don't have a beta reader, so sorry about that.

On another note, I'm looking for a beta reader :D


	8. Help Me! - Four Days Until

"Sherlock? Is that you? Are you okay? Where are you?" Mycroft demanded. He called his father over with a frantic wave.

"Mycroft, help me," Sherlock sobbed. He was almost crying to hard to talk. "I don't know where I am! Please, I need help!"

Mycroft took a deep breath; he needed to be calm for Sherlock. It wouldn't help if Mycroft himself was in a state.

"Okay, Sherlock. I need you to look around you and tell me what you see. Can you see any road signs or street names, or shops or anything remarkable?"

"I don't know! I don't-" Sherlock was wailing now. He was almost hyperventilating into the mobile and Mycroft was worried he'd have a panic attack.

"Sherlock, calm down now," he said sharply. "I can't help you if you don't help me find you. Now tell me what you see." Sherlock sniffled a few times, then it sounded as though he pulled himself together.

"We're - we're by an old sort of church, I think. It has-has a funny looking clock on it, one that's all blue... " He sniffed. "Um, I'm on a street with a bunch of trees making it ridiculously shady... Nothing else is really notable."

"Okay,Sherlock. I think I know right where you are. Are you at Saint Matthew's Church? It has a TARDIS blue sign on the front that should say it." Mycroft just wanted to keep him on the phone. He was afraid that if he hung up, he'd never talk to Sherlock again.

"Yeah, I think - think I see the sign. I can't make out the letters, though. Where are you at right now?" asked Sherlock, who he could tell was making his best effort not to keep crying.

"We're just a few miles away. I'm going to hail a cab and we'll be there to help you in just a few minutes, okay?" said Mycroft.

"Who else is with - who's with you? You said we."

"Father-Daddy is right over here with me. Do you want to talk to him?"

"Yeah... " Mycroft covered the phone up with his hand and whispered what had happened to his father and that he was going to hail a cab, then passed him the phone. He didn't know what Sherlock was saying, but that wasn't important right now.

It seemed like the cabbie drove as slowly as he could to the church. Mr. Holmes stayed on the phone the whole time, telling Sherlock that they were almost there. Even though it was only a few miles, it could have been an hour for Mycroft, who still didn't know what was wrong. Sherlock could be dying right now, he thought, and I'm sitting in a cab.

When they finally arrived, Mycroft found Sherlock immediately. He wasn't quite in front of the church, more like next to it, and there were several people surrounding him. Mycroft dropped his umbrella as he leapt out of the cab.

When he got there, he less of sat and more of fell down next to Sherlock. His first look told him that Sherlock was physically healthy - he wasn't bleeding out and bones weren't sticking out anywhere.

His second glance took in Redbeard, who had both of these things. Sherlock was cradling Redbeard in his arms next to the road and tears were streaming down his face as he whispered 'It will be okay, Redbeard, don't worry. It'll be alright. Mycroft will fix it."

Mycroft enveloped his brother in a hug, heedless of how many people saw him. He cupped his face in his hands and said, "Sherlock! What happened? Are you okay?"

Just then his father arrived, huffing and puffing and going as fast as he possibly could.

"What happened? Is Sherlock alright?


	9. Research - Three Days Until

Redbeard was immediately taken to the best animal hospital in London and given an emergency surgery, with the Holmes' money helping him along. Meanwhile, Sherlock was still worried. Mycroft didn't want to tell him just what had happened, but it was difficult to keep from him-he was a clever child.

Meanwhile, while Redbeard was at hospital, Sherlock went to the library and immediately checked out every book on veterinary surgery they had. For almost five hours, he lay on the couch and read, trying to figure out what was happening to his first mate.

At the end of those hours, he walked over to where Mycroft was pouring over books about government. He didn't notice Sherlock tapping on his arm at first, so Sherlock picked up one of his books and hit him over the head with it.

"Ouch, Sherlock! Don't hit me! What did you find?" said Mycroft, annoyed by his brother's antics.

"I couldn't find anything," said Sherlock petulantly. "And all of these stupid textbooks are outdated. They need to be updated."

"Why do you say that?" Mycroft asked, eyebrows up. Sherlock hesitated, then said "Because every single one of them said there wasn't a way to save a large dog with injuries like Redbeard got. It's not his fault he got hit by a car! Besides, science is always changing, and I'm sure they've found something by now-they're doing a surgery to help him."

Mycroft sighed, not quite sure how to handle the situation. He stared at Sherlock for a few seconds, then went back to what he was reading. Sherlock hit him again, harder this time.

"Mycroft! I need you to get me some better books!"

"Sherlock. They're doing the best they can. The books aren't outdated. Look inside the covers at the publishing date. This one is from last year."

Sherlock's face crumpled, then he straightened himself out and shouted "You're wrong, Mycroft! You're wrong! These books can't tell me and they're wrong too and you're all so stupid! Go away!" Then he threw all the books he was holding at Mycroft's head and ran out of the library.

Mycroft retrieved the books from the ground, then set them on the table and followed Sherlock.

It wasn't hard, really. Sherlock was rather predictable, and since they were in the city, all he really had to do was follow the trail of people laying on the sidewalk where Sherlock had knocked them over.

When he caught up to him, he laid his umbrella down on the ground and actually picked Sherlock up. Sherlock struggled, of course, and he got a square kick to Mycroft's shin. But in the end, Mycroft, who was older and bigger, won.

"Let me go, you-you- you just let go of me! You just want Redbeard to-to just-" Sherlock hiccuped.

Just then, Mycroft's mobile phone rang. He dragged Sherlock to a bench and sat him down, pinning him with his knees, then flipped the phone open.

"Is this Sherlock Holmes?"

"This is his brother, Mycroft. Who is this?" said Mycroft, trying not to let the squirmy Sherlock get away.

"This is the Queens Veterinary Clinic. I'm calling about your dog... Redbeard?" asked the caller.


	10. Pirates Forever-Three Days Until

I dedicate this chapter to my cousin and best friend, who just lost her pet duck Louisa, which is breaking her heart.

Mycroft turned to Sherlock and looked him in the eye.

"Sherlock, Redbeard is dying. Do you want to go see him?" Sherlock just looked at him, soundless. After a minute or so, he mutely nodded.

Mycroft hailed a cab. Sherlock continued to be silent the whole ride there.

When they arrived, Mycroft asked for Redbeard. They were taken to where he was sleeping in a large crate, wrapped in bandages. They looked at him for a minute, then suddenly Sherlock collapsed to his knees and wrapped his arms around Redbeard's neck.

Redbeard woke up with a whimper, then licked Sherlock's face. Sherlock sniffled and crawled into the crate next to Redbeard, eyes full. He didn't start crying until Redbeard put his head down on his paws with a sigh.

"Redbeard... " he whispered into the setter's ear. "What about pirates together, pirates forever?" He stifled a sob and wrapped his arms around Redbeard's neck again. Redbeard tried to turn his head and lick Sherlock's nose, but he couldn't. Finally he just set his head back down on his paws.

Sherlock lay there with his best friend for a long time, just listening to him breath and whispering that "it'll be all right," as much to himself as to Redbeard. Mycroft wasn't sure exactly when he fell asleep; it was dark in the crate. But when Sherlock woke up, Redbeard was gone.

He woke up slowly, huddled against him in the little cage. He had only been asleep for half an hour or so, and Mycroft hadn't let anyone come in and disturb them. As he floated into consciousness, he realised something was off... He wasn't write sure what.

Then all of a sudden, it hit him. He couldn't hear Redbeard breathing anymore. He sat up sharply, banging his head on the roof of the crate. Redbeard was still warm. He put his hand by Redbeard's nose and couldn't feel any air blowing in or out. He climbed out of the cage, looked at Mycroft, and burst into tears.


	11. Silence-One Day Until

Sherlock didn't say a word for two days. Nothing anyone said could make him talk, and no one really wanted to. He stayed in his most of the time, only coming down once or twice a day to eat, and never at mealtimes.

The day before Mycroft had to leave, he decided he had to talk to Sherlock. He walked into Sherlock's room without knocking and sat down on a chair. Sherlock was curled up on his bed, his back to Mycroft. Mycroft considered how to go about it.

Finally, he supposed he had better just get it over with.

"Sherlock." he said. "Sherlock, are you all right?" There was no reply. Sherlock didn't even move. Mycroft sighed, then went to sit on Sherlock's bed. He didn't react.

Mycroft bodily picked Sherlock up and sat him in his lap. It was the closest he'd been to Sherlock since he was a baby. There was still no sign that Sherlock even noticed he had been moved. After a time, Mycroft spoke again.

"Sherlock. I'm leaving tomorrow. Will you be seeing me off?" Sherlock gave a tiny, nearly imperceptible shrug. It was the first indication that he was even aware that Mycroft was there.

"Are you angry with me, Sherlock?" This time, Sherlock gave an extremely noticeable nod. "What about?" Another shrug. "Is it about Redbeard?" Sherlock actually spoke, although his words were muffled.

"You're leaving and you don't even care any more about me and all you like is the government. You don't even play with me anymore."

"That's not true at all. I care a lot about you. That's why I'm here right now."

"Then why are you leaving me? I'm losing my first mate and my sea monster all in one go," said Sherlock bitterly.

"Because, brother. It's an opportunity to further myself. Someday I won't even live here, and then eventually neither will you. People grow up. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. All lives end. All hearts are broken. " That was the wrong thing to say. Sherlock curled up tighter and refused to say another word. Mycroft felt several drops of water soak through his pants leg.

Eventually Mycroft set Sherlock back on his bed. He covered him up, wishing he could help and at the same time admonishing himself to follow his own rule. Sherlock was always the exception. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't stop worrying about his baby brother.

As he left the room, he hesitated; then he shut the door and left.


	12. Conclusion

The next day was the day Mycroft left. Sherlock did not wave his brother off. He did watch from his bedroom window on the second floor, but no one else knew.

"Are you sure you have everything you need, dear? Did you remember your toothbrush?" asked Mrs. Holmes, who was full of nervous energy.

"I have it, mummy, don't worry. I remembered everything. Ie been packed for several days. Don't worry so much," said Mycroft with a smile.

"I can't help it. It's your first time at a boarding school. If you have forgotten anything, don't hesitate to write for it and we'll mail it to you, " said Mrs. Holmes.

"Where's Sherlock?" asked Mycroft. "I didn't see him this morning at breakfast."

"He still hasn't come down from his room. I wish he would come to say goodbye. He won't be seeing you for the next few months," replied Mr. Holmes.

"I think that's why he won't come down," said Mycroft with a frown. He looked up towards Sherlock's window and saw Sherlock hastily move away. "He's watching us, though, from his window. He thinks he's rather sneaky. I wish he weren't so... I don't know. I'll miss him, though. I'll miss all of you. Now I have to go so I'm not late. Goodbye, mummy, Father."

Mycroft gave each of his parents a hug in turn, then turned towards Sherlock's window. Sherlock didn't move this time. He scowled at Mycroft. Mycroft lifted his hand in a wave and he turned away. Mycroft sighed once more, then left.

Sherlock didn't leave his room until he was positive Mycroft was gone.


	13. Quick note

Hey, guys.

Okay, this isn't properly an update, since the story is finished, but I just wanted to say that my friends and I have started a writing magazine for teens between 10-17 and anyone can subscribe or enter their written pieces to possibly be published. We go through all the submissions we get and publish the best ones (although we're still in the beginning stages, and we don't have a lot of submissions yet, so if you send them in sooner you have a better chance of being published!). It's free to submit your pieces and free to subscribe. The website, which has more information, is at this link:

expressitmag


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